


Seven Flowers

by bluefurcape (prettykid)



Category: Naruto
Genre: F/M, Flowers, a lot of flowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 19:20:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7983205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettykid/pseuds/bluefurcape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flowers blossom in autumn fields,<br/>I count them on my hands,<br/>And they number seven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Flowers

 

_Flowers blossom in autumn fields,_

_I count them on my hands,_

_And they number seven._

 

There was a stranger traveling down the road.

Sakura shielded her eyes from the sun, staring at his approaching silhouette. He walked as if he had no where to be, but knew exactly where he was headed. He had a shock of silver hair sticking out wildly from the roots to the ends. On his unusual coloring, Sakura could say nothing. Her own hair was the same shade as the blossom she was named after. She tugged on it absently as she continued to observe him.

As he got closer, she could see that his jacket had been patched many times in the past, enough so that it made it difficult to tell what the original fabric had been. He also wore a large, gray scarf that covered half of his face, even though the weather was fairly mild for this time of year. _And he had an eye patch_. That was a tale she was itching to know.

Where had he come from? She knew every face in the village that was a half a day’s walk from her father’s farm. She knew the families that worked the land around them. It had been quite a while since she had seen a traveler passing through.

She pretended to be busy, plucking weeds growing between the rows of vegetables. All the while, her curious eyes continued to devour him. Her mind spun tales that were likely far, far from the truth.

He was a merchant on his way to sell his wares. No, he only carried a light pack slung between his shoulders.

He was a musician, traveling from place to place, singing a song for coin and a place to sleep. Hmm, that one was plausible. He did look poor.

He was a shinobi, on his way to assassinate the daimyo. At this, she couldn’t help the laugh that flew from her lips. She couldn’t imagine those lanky limbs moving faster than the snail’s pace he was walking at now.

When she looked up again, she startled. He stood just before the path that branched off from the main road to her house. She had not heard his approaching footsteps at all.

She greeted him and received a polite inclination of his head in return. She asked, “Can I help you?”

He patted his jacket until there was a soft crinkle of paper from within. He produced it, handing it to her.

The page knew the creases well, wanting to fold back as soon as she opened it. It had been with him for a long time. There were three lines inked by a practiced hand. Sakura could read a good amount of characters, having gone to the village school for a few years, but it always took her a while to comprehend how the whole came together. She murmured the words softly to herself, testing each one carefully before her eyes widened slightly in realization. “Oh, you can’t speak.”

He nodded then pointed specifically to something on the page. He was looking for work.

“I could ask my father. Why don’t you sit down for a while?” She was disappointed that he couldn’t tell his story after all. “I could make some tea?”

He smiled at that, his visible eye disappearing in a happy crease. She, on the other hand, felt like pouting, deprived of ever knowing what had happened to his other eye.

He was playing with a flower when she returned from the kitchen, waving the delicate stalk of tiny white flowers in the air before him like a brush. She knelt down on the wooden walkway, setting down the tray of tea.

“Where did you find bush clover?” She couldn’t help the scowl on her face. She thought she had dug up all of them after they nearly choked out her squash patch.

He pointed carelessly in multiple directions.

“The flowers are so beautiful—it’s hard to believe they are weeds,” she said, taking it from him after he offered it to her. She ran her fingertips along the petals. It was their time of the year, as the old poem went. Seven blossoms, starting with bush clover.

He was younger than she’d thought, despite the silver of his hair. She discovered this when he lowered his scarf to cool his tea. She struggled to keep the embarrassing flush out of her face as she realized that he was so very, very handsome. He caught her staring and gave her a smile that made her heart beat faster. She ducked her head, pressing her lips together.

As it turned out, her father was glad to have the extra help. Sakura, on the other hand, told herself she was just happy not to be the one to muck out their ox’s stall every morning. She didn’t want to admit how pleased she was the silent stranger was here to stay.

She was embarrassed to say that when he joined them for breakfast the next day, she waited with bated breath for him to reveal his face again. Once more, he noticed her attention and smiled.

That smile would be the end of her.

It said that he knew exactly what she was thinking, but would only politely acknowledge her. His manners were impeccable. He would help her bring the low folding table back to the kitchen once they were finished eating. Then, he would actually help her wash the dishes without being asked. Despite the cold water, a pleasant jolt of heat ran down her arm every time their fingers brushed when he passed a bowl to her to be dried.

There was a spark of humor in his eye that she liked too much. It compelled her to tell him silly stories about herself and then wait eagerly for his reaction, for the subtle movements in his face that she was only just beginning to learn like a student teaching herself to read.

When she could think of no more stories (not because she had run out, but because he flustered her so), she fled into the yard to throw out the used water and catch her breath.

The water darkened the dirt into formless shapes of mud. Think. What was another excuse to approach him? Her eyes caught on the feathery tops of the silver grass peeking out from between the spaces of the stick fence. It reminded her of his hair, which stuck out in all directions. She picked one of the stems of the plant, touching the soft ends, wondering what his hair would feel like.

Her mind went back to the day before, when he had given her the bush clover on a whim. Silver grass came after bush clover in the poem, or so she hastily explained when she all but shoved the stem into his hand. She was certain her face was red the entire time and escaped immediately after.

She had only met this man and her whole balance felt askew. Yet, there was no sign from him that he was being affected in the same way. Always that pleasant, polite smile that creased his eye.

This irritated her deeply.

Sakura knew that others considered her beautiful. Boys would force poorly written poems about her pink hair and green eyes into her palm when she visited the village. Mostly, they stuck to unimaginative comparisons between herself and cherry blossoms, as if she hadn’t made the connection long ago. She herself thought she was passing fair, but nothing compared to a true beauty like her friend Ino, with her silky yellow hair and coy eyes.

She began to think that perhaps even this modest opinion of her looks was far reaching. Once she overcame her initial shyness, she tried smiling back and letting their eyes meet. She managed enough bravery to linger if their hands touched, watching desperately for any sign that he felt an inkling of what she felt when he was around.

He never failed to be anything but polite, ignoring her clumsy attempts at flirting without so much as a stumble. It was a sound rejection that left her wanting to crawl into a deep hole and never come out. She was being foolish, in any case. What did she think she was doing by making advances on a mute hired hand that would likely leave once the harvest was done?

So she took revenge in petty ways. Giving him the smallest fish. Leaving all of the wood chopping for him. Taking him to the woods to forage and then coming back alone.

Sakura frowned each time he accepted her cruelty with endless patience. If only, just once, he would express his annoyance at her! He was the still eye of her own personal storm and he had no idea or, worse, he didn’t care.

He didn’t give a name, so she called him whatever she pleased. Old man. Slow poke. Farm boy. That last one did not last long, because he laughed silently at her, for he was clearly _not_ a boy and ‘farm man’ sounded ridiculous.

She chewed on a piece of grass as they were walking back home one day, her eyes looking around at nothing in particular. They landed on a scarecrow standing tall and ragged in the fields, the straw poking out from the top of its head. A wicked idea occurred to her. “That’s what I should call you: Kakashi. You look an awful lot like one.”

His brows descended for a moment and she thought that finally he would roll his eye or huff in irritation. Instead, he nodded. She blinked quickly, not understanding.

“What?” she asked.

He pointed to the scarecrow then at himself. He was telling her what she should call him.

“Oh. That’s a strange choice,” she muttered. Damn. He took her insult and turned it against her. He actually liked being compared to a ratty old stuffed figure meant to keep away pests.

Curse it all…It just made her adore him more.

#

Perhaps he wasn’t attracted to women. She knew some men like that living down in the village. That thought was a little comforting, because if he was going to reject her, then he might as well reject everyone of her gender too.

She was discussing this with Ino while they ate sweetened mochi in the village square. After finishing up their business in the village, the two were free to chat and catch up while they waited for their families to return.

“Are you sure you wish he likes men?” Ino laughed. “You looked like you were going to melt into a puddle when you handed him that bottle of oil.”

“I did not.” Sakura flushed. Still, that may have just proved her theory. If it was that obvious to Ino, then it should have been obvious to him too.

“Did you try loosening up your kosodo and bending down?” Ino asked through a mouthful of her food. It never failed to amaze Sakura how her friend could go from having the manners of a child to being a flirtatious vixen from one instance to the next.

Sakura sighed, leaning back against the wagon bench. “I may have. Once.” It had not ended well. After that incident, she was unable to meet Kakashi’s eye for an entire day.

“He could just be dense. Maybe it’s time to stop being subtle.”

“Do you think so?”

“Just get him alone and kiss him senseless. Then you’ll know for sure.” Ino winked.

Kissing. That was easy enough for Ino to say. While Sakura had some experience, just the thought of kissing him made her go red all over. Oh, and if he would just touch her too, if she could feel his strong arms wrapped around her—she fanned herself, thinking that she might really melt into a puddle right then and there.

“Oi, now’s your chance.” Ino nudged Sakura, nodding over to the man they were discussing. He ambled along the road, unaware he was being analyzed. “Quickly, before your father gets back.”

Sakura hopped down from the wagon in a slight panic. Was she really doing this? She turned back and saw Ino shooing her towards him.

“What are you waiting for?” Ino asked. “For the heavens to part and the gods to confess on your behalf?”

She had a point. Sakura would never know for sure unless if she asked him directly. Until then, she would wake up each day, wondering and slowly dying inside.

She watched him turn into an alley and decided that yes, she was going after him.

The length of the village square seemed endless. Bits of conversations swirled in the air along with the shouts from the vendor stalls. People milled about their day, not noticing when they cut into her path as she made her way through the crowd.

Finally, she reached the alley she had seen Kakashi go into. She was about to turn the corner when she heard a woman’s voice speaking from further inside. She froze, pressing herself to the wall. Was he meeting a lover? No wonder he had not been interested in a silly thing like herself.

She knew it was wrong, but she strained to listen anyway. It was possible that all of her hopes until now were about to die a horrible death.

“You’re settling in well, I take it.” the woman said. Her voice was soft, like the wind that rustled through the trees.

There was, of course, no words from him. Sakura wished she could see his face.

“With luck, we can return home soon.” Home. Where was their home? This woman knew him well, perhaps even grew up with him as children.

Maybe they had both been traveling and looking for work. Now that the harvest was less than a month away, they were looking forward to going back.

And that would be good bye.

The woman chuckled. “Should I take care of the curious little mouse for you?”

Sakura’s heart almost leaped out of her throat. The woman was talking about her. How had she known? There was an underlying threat in her words that lifted the hairs on Sakura’s arm. She started running.

The shops and houses blurred by. She couldn’t tell if the pounding she heard was the sound of her rushing blood or her feet hitting the ground. She asked herself _why_ she was running, like a coward, rather than face Kakashi and admit she had been listening in.

The thought of reading disappointment on his face made her insides go cold.

A hand closed around her wrist and yanked her into the shadows. Her back hit the wall. She opened her mouth to scream, but the same hand clapped over the bottom half of her face. Tears dripped from her eyes out of fear. She struggled to breathe.

It was him. Kakashi. He had been in the other alley just a minute ago—either he had a twin or he could move impossibly fast. This was completely at odds with the almost lazy gait he employed from day to day. She hit his chest with her fists, trying to get free.

He held a finger to his lips, leveling his gaze on her, asking if she would cooperate. She nodded. He lifted his hand, letting it hover, clamping it down again when he saw her take a deep breath to scream.

“Please,” he whispered.

He could talk.

He could bloody _talk_.

She glared at him in accusation. He sighed, murmuring, “I’m sorry. I’m not going to hurt you.”

She was torn between her suspicions and elation. How much time had she spent, wondering what his voice would sound like if he had one? She choked on a sob, her shoulders shaking.  
“I’m sorry if my friend scared you.” He brushed back a piece of her hair. “I promise that I mean you no harm. If you scream, I will have to leave forever.” His brows tilted. “I should not like that.”

If he left, where would he go? She had no way of finding him again. She had never even gone more than a two day’s journey from her home before. The thought of never seeing her scarecrow again made her stomach sink. She nodded, meaning it this time.

He released her and took a step back, although there was less than an arm’s length between them in the narrow space. They stared at each other and she wished he wasn’t so damn _tall_. He filled her entire range of vision and now that some of the fear had ebbed away, her wits scattered, as it usually did when he was close.

She took a deep breath. A few conclusions fell into place.

He believed that she had been afraid of the woman he had been meeting. Afraid of someone dangerous, not embarrassed because Sakura had been eavesdropping. That meant the threat had been something more than revealing her as a sneak.

Was he dangerous too?

She blurted out, “Who are you?”

“I can’t tell you that.” His voice was low and sweet, rolling out from somewhere deep in his chest. In the back of her mind, she thought he would have sounded wonderful if he sang. She wished now that he had been a singer, as she had speculated on that first day.

Focus. “Why did you pretend to be mute?”

“For reasons.”

She narrowed her eyes, clenching her jaw. “Are you going to tell me anything?”

He tilted his head in consideration. Slowly, his eye creased in that smile again. “I like working on the farm with you. I’d like to…continue working with you.”

She searched him, looking for something more than he was willing to give. Did it matter what he said? He lied and she couldn’t trust him.

“I understand,” he said when she didn’t answer. He let his head drop. “I won’t go back with you and your father.”

She still remained silent. She had no reason other than her affections for him to argue otherwise. Affections for a gentle, silent man who did not exist.

“I was planning to give this to you later,” he continued, reaching into his sleeve. He uncurled his fingers around the object and Sakura gasped.

It was a comb, lacquered a deep polished red that gleamed even in the dim light of the alley. There was a burst of flowers made of tightly rolled cloth in red and white patterns curved along the top. Delicate petals on strings hung down from the main arrangement, ending in tiny silver bells.

She had never seen something so pretty. There were so few pretty things in her life. Her clothes were practical and meant for working in fields. Her shoes were made of simple wood, carved by her father, the straps made from old cloth. She owned one _yukata_ she saved for festivals that had belonged to her mother.

He avoided her eyes and cleared his throat. “Kudzu comes after silver grass, right?” She blinked, not understanding. He fidgeted with the comb, chuckling awkwardly. “Like in the poem?”

_Oh._

“Could I put this in your hair?” he asked. A light flush rose above the edge of his scarf.

She could barely function enough to move her head up and down. A pleasant shiver ran through her at the feeling of his fingers on her scalp.

“I knew you would make it look lovely.” He drew back, admiring the effect. His gift was something that belonged to a daughter born to a rich merchant, not a farmer, yet he didn’t seem to think that way for one moment.

Lovely? She self-consciously touched the new weight on her head. She wished she could see what he did. “Thank you.”

“I hope you will think of me when you wear it.” He brushed the back of his hand against the curve of her cheek. “I will miss you.”

She was seized by the urge to cling to him and beg him to stay. She screwed her eyes shut. No. If he stayed, all of his secrets would become hers, but she would not know any of them. She would have to lie to her father’s face without knowing exactly why. Maybe she could hide the truth for Kakashi, but this man? She wasn’t even certain who he really was.

She opened her eyes and she was alone. A sob shook her frame as she leaned against the wall behind her and slid to the ground.

#

She and her father returned home. He was annoyed that Kakashi had suddenly disappeared without letting him know, but he sighed and grumbled something about flighty young people and was done with it. She remained quiet throughout the entire journey, sitting on the wagon bench with her hands limp in her lap, jostled side to side by the uneven road.

She stewed in her own regrets and doubts now that Kakashi was well and truly gone. Should she have asked him to stay? Where was he headed? Should she at least have given him the courtesy of a final meal before depriving him of his shelter? She traced the lump in her sleeve where she had hidden the hair comb. Her father would ask too many questions if she kept it on her head. It seemed that she would be keeping Kakashi’s secrets whether he had stayed or not.

As the days passed, Sakura realized there were many different types of silences. There was the comfortable silence between friends and family that settled over her like a cozy blanket on a bitterly cold night. There was the angry silence after an argument that suffocated her with lingering sharp words and hurt. Then there was the silence of missing someone who had gone from her life. The extra food meant for his meals. The small belongings left behind that she didn’t know what to do with.

She found the silver grassshe had given him placed on top of his folded bedding. The feathery top was now withered and brittle, pieces of it falling when she moved it. Soon, it would crumble into dust. Time would erase all signs that he had been in her life. It was already difficult enough to say that he had been real in the first place. He was a ghost, a shadow, and a dream all at once.

She carefully tied the silver grass with a string to the bush clover stem and hung it next to her window. She thought ruefully that the little game they had been playing would remain incomplete.

But she was wrong.

One morning, a dianthus was left on the windowsill of her room. Her heart thumped in her chest with a sudden rush of hope at the sight of the feathery pink petals. She snatched up the flower and stuck her head out the window, searching for him. Only the empty yard outside greeted her. Not even footprints in the dirt to mark his presence. Had it been him? It had to have been…Or perhaps she was losing her mind.

After that, she stayed alert for any sign of him. Sometimes, she found herself staring too long the spot where the road met the curve of the earth, willing his lanky silhouette to appear.

A thrill ran through her at the sight of a valerian stem waiting for her a week after she found the dianthus. She cradled the tiny yellow blooms. He was visiting her—even if he refused to show himself.

Yes, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to ask him to stay when they were at the village, but she still wanted to see him again. She wanted to know how much of the man she had fallen in love with was real.

She tore out of the house, chanting the poem silently to herself. Bush clover. Silver grass. Dianthus. Valerian.

_Comfrey._

She ran through the tall grasses that grew thick up to her waist. She knew of a patch by the river. It took hours of tromping through the mud to find them.

Her father scolded her when she came home later that evening with her feet stained brown. It was hard to appear chastised when she felt so triumphant she could fly.

She didn’t know when he would visit again, but every morning, she opened her windows and left the cluster of pink flowers in a cup of water on the sill. She hoped he would understand what it meant, that she wanted to see him again. Just one more time.

When the day’s work was done, she checked for any sign the flowers had been moved. She tilted her head, poking the buds, each one smaller than the nail on her pinky. If he had visited, would he take them and let her know? Or would he leave them be and leave her waiting? By the end of the week, she had to go find a fresh batch after the first ones wilted and rotted.

She sighed, arranging the new ones in the cup. He had told her nothing about his life, but she could guess that it was a dangerous one. Why else would he hide his identity and meet with someone in dark alleys? Perhaps he had been hurt. Or killed. She leaned heavily against the window sill.

Two weeks later, the comfrey disappeared from its cup. He was alive. Relief buckled her knees and she began to laugh.

#

In her dreams, she often heard him call her name. It was why she thought she was still dreaming when she opened her eyes during the middle of the night. She frowned, listening again to the crickets chirping outside.

“Sakura,” his voice rasped.

She scrambled out from beneath her covers and went to her window, sliding the papered frame open. All she saw was the yard in the moonlight. “Kakashi?” she whispered.

“Down here.” He was slumped against the side of the house, his breathing ragged. The sharp odor of blood reached her nose. It was hard to tell from his dark clothes how badly he was hurt. Her chest tightened.

“Hold on.” She climbed out the window and was by his side. She gently tilted his masked face towards herself.

She exhaled sharply as she beheld what had been beneath the eye patch all along. A thin scar ran through his brow down to his cheek. The injury should have blinded him, but instead of a milky blue, curved black daggers swirled within a scarlet iris. Again, she asked herself, who was this man?

She swallowed her questions. Despite the brief contact, her fingers were coated in a sticky red. “Tell me where you’re wounded.” She could at least bandage his injuries and buy enough time for her father to fetch a healer.

“Most of it’s not mine.” He indicated to his left side where she saw his mutilated flesh through the tear in his clothing. “That’s bothering me a little, but I won’t die from it.”

“I keep salves and clean rags in the kitchen.” She bit her lip in hesitation. “Can you stand? Maybe I should call my father now—”

“No.” He struggled to his feet, but still supporting himself against the wall. He took a shuddering breath. “If you help me, I can make it.”

She slipped his arm over her shoulders and felt him put some of his weight settle on her. He was heavy, but nothing a farm girl couldn’t handle. They began their slow trudge around the perimeter of the house. There was a slight limp to his step and she hoped it wasn’t a broken bone.

He stopped, nearly making her stumble. “Ah, I almost forgot. I have something for you.”

“Maybe now is not the best time.”

“ _Now_ is the perfect time, because I _may_ die—” she opened her mouth because only moments ago he’d said the exact opposite, “—and if this would be my final act, my spirit would be satisfied.”

She was about to haul his stubborn self over her shoulder when he withdrew a handful of crushed yellow flowers out of the pouch around his waist.

“What are those?” she asked.

“Chrysanthemums.” He frowned. “The last flower in the poem?”

She spoke slowly, “No, it’s supposed to be bellflower.”

“Hmm. I could have sworn.” Those were his final words before he lost consciousness.

#

Sakura was afraid that he would leave before morning, but he was still there when she woke. Her father had gone and fetched the healer during the night as well. Thankfully, the healer declared the wounds looked much worse than they actually were. They just had to keep it clean and prevent fever from setting in.

Kakashi continued to sleep until that afternoon. He sat up with a sudden jerk, startling Sakura, who had been dozing off at his side.

“Don’t move quickly. You’ll open up the wounds again.” She nudged him back onto the futon.

Kakashi reached out for her initially, but touched his hair instead in confusion when he noticed there was a foreign weight on it. “What’s this?”

“A flower crown.” She plucked out one of the blue star-shaped blossoms and held it up for him to see.

A smile spread on his lips. “Bellflower.”  
“I knew you would make it look lovely.” She smiled too, tucking her hair behind her ears.

They stared at each other for a long time. Their hands lay close together atop the blanket, almost touching. There was so much that needed to be said and she had questions that she didn’t know were ever going to be answered.

“Sakura—” he began, but she silenced him with a kiss. He pulled her down so that they were laying on their sides, facing each other.

The sweet smell of the flowers in his hair mingled with the kiss. He murmured her name every chance he had. The syllables on his tongue sounded to her like a song.

She sighed his name too, then stopped, pulling back. “Is Kakashi even your real name?”

“Actually…yes.”

She couldn’t believe that much had been true. If anything, that had been the one thing she thought for certain had been a lie. She wanted to find out what else had been true too. That wouldn’t be possible if he didn’t stay.

She clutched the blanket over his chest. “Will you be going home?”

His fingers tangled themselves into her hair and he brought her back for another kiss, one that made her toes curl and her heart ache. When it was done, he said, “I’m already home.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ty to my friend moonvalentine who is more beautiful than a million flowers for reading through this and giving amazing suggestions.


End file.
